Rise
by Red River
Summary: "The dark-haired man was stretching out his hand again, and Sam wanted to take it, but he was suddenly certain his brother needed him, and that was a pull he'd never been able to fight. " In the aftermath of a ghost encounter, Sam navigates a labyrinth of memory and lie, each step leading to a sunset, a roof, and a sharp descent. Cas/Sam centric; part of the Other Guardian 'verse.


A/N: This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. There's a detailed note about it on my profile page, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

This story follows "Starbright," but it's not really necessary to read that story first.

Special Note: This story is in a slightly different style than many in the Other Guardian 'verse. It's also less closely tied to the other stories in the 'verse. However, it is set in the summer after "Starbright," and still focuses on advancing Cas and Sam's relationship. We also wanted to use this story to incorporate some sense of Sam's troubled adolescence, with a little of the fun of a high school AU thrown in. Please enjoy.

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"A little help here, man?" Sam pushed himself up from the ground and reached around for the tire iron, casting a glance over his shoulder to where Dean's head was just visible down in the grave. "I don't have the rock salt gun."

"I'm going as fast as I can," Dean griped, tossing a shovelful of dirt over his shoulder.

Sam wiped dirt from his face. "I'm just telling you, I can only throw this tire iron once."

It was supposed to be just a simple salt-and-burn, just one more desecrated grave in a typical cemetery in the most typical small town in Heartland America. Lawrence, who from his picture had been a very skinny and average teenager in life, had become one hell of a powerful ghost, throwing the Winchesters and their equipment around like ragdolls. They had tracked the haunting to Lawrence's high school, which was not where Lawrence had died, but where his younger brother had committed suicide by jumping off the roof. Lawrence's death was a mystery, cause unknown even on the coroner's report. But with two students having taken dives off the roof already and the brother cremated, Lawrence was where the buck stopped.

Sam felt a prickle as the hairs on his arms stood on end; he turned to see Lawrence barreling toward him from the left, and threw the tire iron, missing as the ghost fazed out of existence and then back, right in his face. Sam gasped and tried to shout for his brother, but his own yell was eclipsed by Dean howling, "Burn, motherfucker!" And the ghost _was_ burning, right in front of Sam. But instead of the smoke disappearing, suddenly Sam felt like his lungs were filling with ash, and for one moment he felt like _he_ was the one burning. A rushing roared up in his ears and he felt himself tumbling backward. The last thing he heard was Dean shouting his name, and then one frantic, earsplitting call that was quickly becoming the most popular Hail Mary in the Winchesters' toolbox: "_Cas!_"

Suddenly Sam was pushing himself out of the grass, climbing slowly to his knees; the sun was so bright he had to shade his eyes. A hand appeared in front of him.

"Need a hand, Sammy?" He reached out, gripping the fingers that tugged him to his feet. His backpack felt like it weighed a zillion pounds, and Sam wrinkled his nose slightly, because something about all this seemed wrong—but there was something familiar about this, too, his brother pulling him to his feet and dusting off his striped shirt.

"You know, if you don't like the polos, there are easier ways of getting rid of them than throwing yourself on the ground." The strange tingling was chased away by the sunlight and Sam made a face up at his brother, meeting brown eyes.

"I didn't do it on purpose, Lawrence," he protested. The name fell off his tongue a little strangely, but Sam just attributed it to the dirt he had recently eaten.

"Right, right—because now that you're in high school, you're gonna start shooting up, huh, shorty?" Lawrence brushed a hand through Sam's hair, purposefully messing it up, and Sam yanked back a step, trying to smooth his bad bowl cut back into place even as he envied his older brother. Lawrence's hair never seemed to give him any trouble, a shining ebony with just the right amount of curl. His brother was a senior, class president, popular, and Sam…the boy frowned again. Lawrence gave him a push, and he began walking again toward the tall school of dark gray stone.

Sam was... it was strange, he couldn't really seem to pull up any of the memories. He had a feeling he wasn't well-liked in school, but he couldn't really seem to remember why. A locker with the word _freak_ scrawled across it in dripping paint flashed through his mind, and he picked at the polo shirt, looking down at his Pumas. Why would anyone at St. Augustine's call him a freak? Something tickled, itching under his skin.

His thoughts were scattered by a tap on the back of his head. "Hey," Lawrence warned, "You're going to be late for first period." His brother set a hand in the center of his back, propelling him forward to where a steady stream of kids was passing beneath the tall, heavily wrought gates into the school. The push Sam had been given was none too gentle, and that niggling feeling was back, even stronger, every fiber of his being somehow on high alert, telling him he shouldn't go into the building.

"Sam." Lawrence frowned down at him, eyes dark, his fingers curling around Sam's upper arm. "If you disobey him again, Dad is going to be so mad," his brother warned.

A chill of uncertainty ran through Sam. He didn't really want to make his father mad, but another, stronger memory was trying to make it through. The scent of gun oil, and the feel of scarred, calloused fingers. Sam spun to face his brother.

"Dad's out hunting..." he said. The sun was in his eyes again, making his head hurt, and Sam had to look away for a moment. Lawrence's comforting hand fell on his shoulder as he leaned down to meet Sam's eyes.

"That's right, Sam," his brother said soothingly. "He's out hunting for new clients for his law firm—remember?" The frown from before was gone, replaced by a gentle expression, and his gaze held Sam's. Suddenly the headache was gone, and Sam found that he did remember—the tall, dark-haired man with the thin, silver-framed glasses and the same curls as Lawrence, gathering his briefcase. He was gone a lot, and all Sam had was his brother. He smiled up into Lawrence's brown eyes, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder.

"I should get to class," Sam said, and Lawrence nodded, propelling him once again through the gates. This time the shorter boy didn't resist, passing under the twining wrought iron. Apparently they had made it just in time, because the gates started swinging closed after them.

Smiling teenagers in polos, slacks, dresses, and varsity jackets streamed up the wide stone steps, veering around Sam and the brother. They walked through the front door together, before Lawrence paused at the head of the long corridor of lockers, settling a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Well, I'm this way," his brother told him. "You've got chemistry."

Of course—Sam's mind filled in the classroom number, images of his locker, his combination. Lawrence patted his arm twice with a sympathetic look.

"Just don't let it get to you, okay, Sam?" he said, voice saccharine.

"What?"

"The bullying, Sam," Lawrence said, his hand finally falling away as he walked the other direction down the hall, but the heaviness remained on the brown-haired freshman's shoulder. He hated it here. Sam swallowed, heading into the crowded hall. His let his head drop, not making eye contact, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and then suddenly he was in front of his locker, fingers spinning the dials. Part of Sam's brain insisted that something was wrong, but the other part filled in the few minutes that had seemed to disappear: he had navigated the hallway, been shoved by a tall figure in a red varsity jacket, and determined to visit his locker as fast as possible.

The last number clicker into place and Sam opened the creaking door. The inside of his locker was really in disrepair compared to the rest of the school, and his books too—they looked beat-up and secondhand. Which was strange, because he remembered when his father had taken him to buy them from the bookstore, sleek and new. These were definitely his books, though, his notes in the margin, and a Hitler mustache drawn on the face of William Shakespeare on his English book courtesy of his brother...Lawrence. He continued staring at the books intently, feeling like he was on the edge of something—then light glanced off of the little mirror on the door of his locker, which someone had teased him about endlessly, and the bell rang, scattering his thoughts.

It didn't seem like it had been that long, but somehow Sam was late, and his teacher was going to be so mad—Lawrence too, though he couldn't completely remember why. He stepped away from his locker, closing the door and turning to face his angry teacher, with the eyes of the entire class on him. His fingers slipped from the doorknob.

"Sam." The tall man in the pristine suit with the laser pointer was giving him a dark look, and though the boy felt a moment of panic, it was quickly suppressed as his mind filled in. He had left, and run through the hallways; he must have come in long after the first bell.

"Do you intend to stand there interrupting for the entire lesson?" the teacher demanded. Sam felt his face flush, and a couple of giggles floated up from the other students. Sam glanced around for a familiar or friendly face, but found only his empty seat. He hurried over, sitting down and opening his immaculate textbook, marked with careful tabs and sticky notes so as not to deface the words. The sleek fabric sleeve hid the picture on the cover. He turned with rapt attention to the front; his education was important. He took notes dutifully, one class blending into the next; his pencil slipped strangely over the word _family_, and he reached for the fat pink eraser at the corner of his desk...

Wrapping his fingers around the plastic fork at the corner of his lunch tray. He was in the cafeteria, but the strange way time seemed to move only gave him a moment's pause before a figure caught his gaze across the lunch room. Most of the other students were just a blur to Sam, familiar if he looked at them closely but fading into the background like they were already some kind of memory—but this boy was different. Sam didn't recognize him at all. He looked like a senior maybe, with soft black hair and blue eyes, and it was strange—he was wearing slacks and a button-down not unlike many other students, but he had a tan trench coat over the top of the ensemble. It flared out behind him as he started walking across the cafeteria, and ever stranger, none of the other students really seemed to notice the boy. His blue eyes locked on Sam, and immediately the pain in his head increased tenfold.

A tray was set down hard on the table next to Sam, and the brown-haired boy jumped at the sound, glancing up reflexively and blinking the light of the overheads out of his eyes. He watched Lawrence sit down, fixing him with cold brown eyes. Sam looked back out across the cafeteria, but the other boy was gone.

The encounter was shaken from his head as Lawrence began to talk to him, about his classes, the student council. His future was practically guaranteed, if he could just hold it together under the pressure—not a problem for him. His brother's heavy hand fell on his shoulder and Sam spun to face him.

"I'm just sorry things are so bad for _you_..." Lawrence's voice was overly sweet again, and the Sam wanted to protest, but as soon as he met those brown eyes, he couldn't seem to remember what he wanted to say. He gaze traveled back to the half-eaten food on his tray, the hand an ever-present weight on his shoulder.

Things _had_ been bad—so bad.

"You really didn't deserve it, Sam," Lawrence whispered in his ear, but there was a strange note of glee in his voice, and when Sam turned it was to find that he was in a tiled bathroom, with large mirrors and shining faucets except for the fixture in the corner. That sink was old and cracked, and graffiti covered the mirror and the stall across from it, reflecting the word _freak_ over Sam's face as he tried to wash his hands of the goo that had been left on the handle of his locker.

Two more figures entered through the heavy mahogany door, dressed in ripped jeans, one with a backward baseball cap. They were in one of the years above him. Sam looked away quickly, shutting off the water and rubbing his wet hands against his tan slacks. He just wanted to get out of there suddenly, maybe to his brother...the thought had become unsure in his head.

"Hey, if it isn't the Goodwill Loser who couldn't keep his mouth shut."

Sam tensed. He didn't know either of these boys, but they were clearly friends of the bully he had turned in for taking a classmate's homework. A decision he was coming to regret. He wasn't direct like his brother, hadn't wanted to get in the other boy's face, never had been good at threats, but he also hadn't been able to just stand by and watch bullying continue, especially coupled with cheating.

Confusion swirled in Sam's mind for a moment as he looked down, finding his wet handprints on his faded jeans, barely visible in the dim, grimy bathroom. Part of him insisted that things had been different a moment ago, but then the heavy steps of combat boots against the concrete floor brought him back.

"I don't want any trouble," Sam told the two taller boys, backing up until he could feel the ceramic curve of the sink in his back.

"Well maybe you shouldn't have started any trouble, then," the boy with the baseball cap said with a sneer. "I think he needs a lesson, don't you, Jake?" They lunged, and Sam was torn. His brother would be disappointed—angry, even, if he didn't fight back, but their father would be angry if he caused an incident.

The dark-haired man with the silver glasses shot through Sam's mind briefly, making him wonder _why_ he would be so mad about fighting, but then two meaty hands were grabbing his arms. Sam tested the hold as he was spun and shoved against the sink with bruising force, but he would have to hurt them to get out, and he would if this went too far, he promised himself, but Winchesters were tough—wasn't that what his father always said...? He wasn't really sure.

"Why don't we clean out that tattling mouth for you."

Sam struggled halfheartedly, feeling Jake fist a hand in his hair. He saw his own reflection in the mirror for just a moment, feeling disgusted by how pathetic he looked. The word _freak_, penned in black across the mirror for whatever reason, rested right over his face.

Then Jake was shoving his head into the sink, while his buddy turned on the cold water. Sam spluttered a little bit, grateful that the shallow sink only allowed them to submerge about half of his face. He was still dazed and blinking when he heard the sound of plastic being broken, and he head was forced farther into the porcelain while the boy who held him laughed, his whole form shaking.

"Perfect, dude!" he told his friend, and Sam suddenly had a sinking feeling, deciding this had gone on long enough. He bucked a little against the taller boy's hold, intending to stomp hard down on his instep, but a second later he was choking instead as hard fingers grabbed his chin and something plastic was forced against his face. Then gooey soap started to fill his mouth. It was slick and oily, and Sam spluttered against the terrible taste, slamming the back of his head against the faucet as he tried to get away.

Jake had broken the soap dispenser on the wall, pulling out the plastic bag. Sam tried to close his lips against the economy soap running over his chin and down his collar.

"Maybe this will make you think twice about squealing again, pig."

Sam wanted to get away now, didn't care if he hurt the boys. Soap was getting up his nose, bringing tears to his eyes, and the coughing was driving the terrible taste down his throat. His brother, where was his brother...

"Stop this immediately," a low voice said warningly.

Sam could barely see through the soap in his eyes and the tears to where a figure was standing in the doorway. A second later he could feel the weight of the hand on his head being wrenched free, and he thought he saw Jake being tossed backward into the cracking wall, but that was impossible, because the figure had barely grabbed him—he must have tripped. The two boys were swearing something awful, Sam couldn't quite hear over the sound of his own coughing, but he heard the creaking of the door as he hung over the sink, spitting soap and bile into the still-running faucet.

"Sam."

The low voice was much softer now. Warm hands gripped his arms, helping to hold him up, and Sam saw tan material as a steady hand reached forward, turning down the water pressure on the cold and nudging the other one until there was a gentle stream of warm water flowing past his face. He was still choking a little bit, feeling the burn of something caught in his lungs. He squinted at the mirror, looking past the cracks and graffiti to the dark-haired teen who had saved him. It was the boy from before, from the cafeteria—the senior.

He coughed again harshly, and he felt himself shifted. The dark-haired senior let one of his long arms slide all the way around Sam, helping him lean toward the faucet; with the other he cupped some of the warm water in his palm, pouring it over Sam's soapy bangs and combing out the wet strands with his fingers. He let the cuff of his tan trench coat get soaked with the water and then lifted it slowly to wipe Sam's face. The tan color was making something buzz in the brown-haired boy's mind, and his head spun, making him certain he'd forgotten something important.

"Sam," the dark-haired senior said slowly, "this isn't what you think. You have to get out of here..." His savior was still talking, but the buzzing in his head was getting louder, and so was the sting in his chest. The coughing got worse, his lungs burning and squeezing his chest, forcing all the air out until blackness started waver at the corner of his vision. Only the strong arm across his chest kept him from falling into the sink entirely.

He felt himself being dragged back, and his knees collapsed under him. The senior in the trench coat held him close, lowering them both slowly to the floor. He could feel the material of the coat against his cheek, and the warm hand on his chest, his head in the black-haired figure's lap. His dark eyes met Sam's for a moment searchingly, and then he was looking over to somebody standing behind him that Sam hadn't even noticed.

He couldn't see the figure well. Someone with spiky hair, and a leather coat that seemed almost as familiar as the tan. He thought he saw green eyes for a moment at the edge of his vision, and even stranger, instead of the tiled bathroom, the space fading around him had a trellis, the edge of a bed...

"Why can't you help him?!" the green-eyed figure demanded of the senior holding him. Sam couldn't see anything but the blackness anymore, feeling like he was being pulled down.

"The ghost is trying to meld itself with him," his savior said, and though Sam had a feeling they were talking about him, he couldn't seem to follow, couldn't understand what the words meant. "Sam's own memories are merging with those of the ghost. I will try..." The rest faded out, but Sam thought he heard the green-eyed man shouting that trying wasn't good enough before it was all a ringing in his ears.

Sam blinked three times; black spots were dancing in his vision, and he wasn't feeling too well. Disorientation assaulted his senses as he tried lift his head from where it was resting on a hard surface. There was a hand on his shoulder, and Sam followed it up to meet the concerned brown eyes of his brother. He tried to work his mouth, sorting through what had happened to him, but he couldn't reconcile the different pieces.

"Did you have a bad dream, Sam?" Lawrence asked, giving his arm a squeeze.

"I…I think I did."

Sam trusted his brother implicitly—with his life, since he was a baby...since, well, he couldn't remember quite when, but... Lawrence helped him up, and when Sam looked around, he realized he was sitting at a desk with his tall, black-haired brother perched on the edge of the next desk over. It looked like his classroom—students milled, some reading, some gathered in clumps around desks or scribbling furiously in notebooks. A blond-haired boy leaned casually against the window. Sam's eyes traveled to the front of the room, where he saw _Study Hall_ written in yellow chalk on the blackboard.

"You must have fallen asleep during study hall," Lawrence told him, and Sam could almost remember the hours that had brought him here. "It's a shame you would waste your important study time like this, isn't it?" Lawrence seemed disappointed, and Sam felt a strange twisting in his gut. He felt sort of nauseous, like when he lost too much blood...red swirled suddenly through his vision, and he realized that his brother's grip on his arm had become uncomfortably tight.

"I'm sorry, Lawrence," he found himself saying. He was such a disappointment to his family. Somewhere in a haze there was his father with the briefcase, and he was railing at Lawrence, except somehow it was all Sam's fault. The rush of blood filled Sam's ears, driving him further into the memory—then there was a loud pop, like the snap of a rubber band. Sam started, his head suddenly clear. Lawrence didn't seem to have heard anything. He just patted Sam's hand sympathetically before hopping off the desk.

"I'll see you on the roof later," Lawrence said. Sam just nodded.

"The roof," he promised, though he wasn't sure why they would be going up there. A different view slanted into his for a moment, a steel railing on the top of red bricks, the sound of the wind roiling at a height and a blurred figure on the edge.

Another loud snap pinged through Sam's fuzzy head, and he was brought back to the classroom, glancing around for the source. He found it after a second, watching the blond-haired boy leaning against the window pull bits of pink gum from around his lips, gathering it back into his mouth. He raised his eyebrows suggestively when he saw Sam staring, and the brown-haired boy ducked his head for a moment. But though he tried to look away, he found his eyes just scanned over the rest of the room, almost as if it wasn't there, before fixing again on the boy.

He was out of place, Sam realized, looking down at his striped polo shirt and then at the boy's tight red t-shirt with a Skittles logo. When he looked closer he could see lollipops sticking out of the boy's pockets. His eyes followed Sam as the freshman stood slowly, easing himself out from behind the desk and walking toward the figure. The boy blew another enormous pink bubble that snapped as Sam drew closer.

"Do I know you?" he asked. He was still feeling thick, drugged, but there was something else. The blond gave him a knowing look.

"I don't go to this school," he informed, pulling his gum in a long string from his mouth. "I'm just an observer." He reached over, sticking the chewed gum under the windowsill and unwrapping a purple lollipop. Sam watched disapprovingly, but he couldn't quite work up enough energy to say anything. A shiver ran down his spine, and Sam glanced up. It was about time to be getting to the roof.

"Hey." The blond's voice dragged his attention back, the boy smiling around his lollipop. "If you're looking for help, I'd try him..." He pulled the candy stick from his mouth, gesturing toward the doorway to the classroom. Sam turned slowly. He really didn't have time for this—he had to meet Lawrence on the roof—but he found himself staring at the dark-haired senior from before. Suddenly he wasn't sure anymore how he had gotten where he was, and he couldn't remember anymore what was memory and what must have been dream.

Part of him just wanted to get up to the roof. He felt another shiver rack his form and wrapped his arms around himself. The afternoon sunlight coming through the window was far too bright, making his head spin and ache, and with a start he realized the blond boy had disappeared entirely.

"Sam." He wasn't even sure when the senior had crossed the room—just that suddenly there were warm hands on either side of his face, blue eyes searching his desperately. "Sam, you are growing weaker."

He almost snorted. He could have told the senior that. He was sick, right...he had some kind of memory of that.

"I just..." Another shiver ran through him, and he felt one of the warm hands slide up his cheek to his forehead.

"You must come with me, Sam," the low voice insisted urgently, and Sam realized that against his will his eyes had starting sliding closed. There was some name on the tip of his tongue that he couldn't quite seem to remember, but the senior had saved him once before.

The brown-haired boy tried to force his eyes open, and the dark-haired senior seemed satisfied by his effort. He let his hands drop from the sides of Sam's face, reaching down and taking the younger boy's hand in his instead, pulling him toward the door. No one really seemed to notice them hurrying through the hallway, going on almost as though they didn't exist, and Sam stumbled to keep up with the fast pace the older boy had set.

His mind was churning almost as much as his stomach, telling him he couldn't leave early, that his father would be disappointed, mad, that it was wrong to leave the school, that he needed to get to the roof—but the warm hand in his was stronger than the worry, and Sam focused on the back of the familiar tan trench coat.

They had just exited the front doors, and Sam could see the huge iron gates in the distance, when suddenly the sun flashed in his eyes—not the gold of afternoon, but the blinding light of sunset. How could it have gotten so late? It would be dark soon. Pain spiked through Sam's head and he stumbled a little bit, losing his grip on the senior. One of his feet had landed right on the crack of the sidewalk, toes hanging over the edge, and he scuttled backward, suddenly unsure why his heart was beating so loud in his ears.

"Sam."

The dark-haired senior had turned back. He was stretching out his hand again, and Sam wanted to take it, he really did, but he was suddenly struck by the overwhelming sureness that his brother needed him, and that was a pull he had never been able to fight. He felt colder than ever now, as though the other boy's warm hand had been all that was keeping the ice from creeping through his veins.

"You don't have much time."

Sam knew that already somehow, because now he could feel wind at his back. He stepped forward, maybe to thank the senior for trying, for being there, but as soon as he had moved, he was pulling his foot back, because suddenly it wasn't concrete under the toe of his beat-up sneaker—it was the line where the red bricks dropped away to empty air, the long fall to the parking lot. Sam was standing on the wrong side of the steel railing, with his arms hooked on the bar behind him, staring down at the black asphalt stories below.

The wind howling sounded a lot like someone calling his name, someone familiar begging and pleading with him for something. It was chased away as Lawrence's fingers clenched against the nape of his neck, chasing goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cold down his arms.

"Things were really bad for you," Lawrence whispered. He squeezed Sam's neck before lifting a hand to push a strand of hair behind his ear. _Things were really bad, _Sam's mind echoed, churning up more half-memories he couldn't place. The smell of gun oil, and a black car speeding down the road.

"I was really suffering." The hand that had been petting his hair stopped suddenly, grabbing a fistful. Lawrence yanked his head back. "And you wouldn't suffer with me." He tugged harder, eliciting a hiss from Sam. It was lost immediately in the wind as Sam looked at the darkening sky somewhere distant above him. "And then suddenly you were suffering too…so much." Lawrence loomed over him, looking Sam in the eye, and there was a glint there the brown-haired boy couldn't place, somewhere between suffering and cruelty, emotions that too often blurred into each other in vengeful spirits. He wasn't sure where the thought came from, but it gave him a little more strength to face his brother.

"You're pushing your thoughts into me," Sam said slowly, and Lawrence shuddered, letting go of his hair and stepping away. "I can help you," the brown-haired boy said, trying to project as much sincerity in his voice as he could. One of his sneakered feet slid a little against the edge, and he felt numb inside his skin.

"There's really only one thing left for you to do," Lawrence said, stepping even farther away. "You're going to jump, Sam." He said it calmly, matter-of-factly, and Sam knew with a dread certainty that he was. Some tiny spark inside of him was trying to dig through his brain, find the reason why this shouldn't be happening, that his brother would never do this to him, but the numbingly cold part of him was already unhooking one arm from the railing.

His heart sped up in his chest, and once both his arms were free, he turned so that his back was to the fall, only his toes gripping the edge, fingers wrapped around the steel bar of the railing. His eyes locked onto Lawrence's, and he felt himself shifting, leaning backward, all his moves scripted for him like some kind of play. He could feel the pull of gravity as he leaned farther and farther back, the vertigo of the empty space behind him, and finally with only his fingertips left he felt his grip slipping.

But the last thing he saw was not Lawrence's tortured gaze, but instead the door to the roof banging open, and a tan trench coat flapping in the wind. Those dark eyes met Sam's panicked ones for just a second before the brown-haired boy was falling. The edge of the building started to slip away, a second of weightlessness, and Sam closed his eyes.

Then suddenly he felt arms wrapping around him, and there was a jerk, and all at once he wasn't falling anymore. There was a strange rustling sound like feathers, and the air was rushing around him, but he wasn't falling. The only thing in front of him was the tan of a familiar trench coat, and Sam tried to look down. He could only see a little bit—a body on the pavement that had fallen from the roof. A boy, a teenager, about his age, with curly black hair. Lawrence's little brother who hadn't committed suicide, not really. _Evan..._

Everything was coming back suddenly, making him start to burn where seconds ago he had been freezing. His body shivered against the heat, and for a moment he was still thirteen years old, being carried by an angel. The low voice rumbled in the chest under his hands.

"Sam."

The tall hunter jerked sharply, his eyes flying open. He was lying on the floor of a small hotel room with his head in Castiel's lap, the angel's hands resting gently against Sam's temples.

"Cas..." Sam said, his voice cracking slightly.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy!" Dean was suddenly there too, at his other side, crouching down. He wiped a hand over his mouth. "You scared the crap out of me, man—one minute we're burning that mothertrucker, and the next second you're suckin' in burning ghost. What the hell happened?"

Sam debated the wisdom of many things: trying to sit up when his head still felt like he had a solar flare behind his eyes, how much of the vision he'd had was real, and most of all whether he should tell Dean the truth or not. Because he understood it all now that he was back, now that he had seen Lawrence before he became a vengeful ghost.

Sam sat up gingerly, moving to lean against the motel bed. He felt sore all over. Castiel's dark eyes met his for a moment as though assessing him, but he simply remained seated on the floor next to the tall hunter.

"It was one of the children," Sam told his brother. Dean, who had been crouching, stood abruptly.

"What...you mean...?" Dean's expression was dark.

"Yeah." Sam sighed. "One of Azazel's chosen ones. He died long before Cold Oak and all of it. His powers manifested early, but he couldn't control them—he ended pushing thoughts into his younger brother."

"You mean the one who...oh." Dean sat down heavily on the bed.

"The blood of Azazel could have created a bridge for the spirit to enter your body," Castiel affirmed.

Sam just nodded. He'd figured as much. His head still ached, the images of his vision, memory, whatever it had been playing behind his eyes, and suddenly the light from the lamp was too bright. Sam made to stand up, intending to dim the setting, try to provide some relief. But instead of finding his feet, he felt the world tipping again—and then a pair of strong hands was steadying him, and Sam was staring into the familiar tan fabric. He knew he was about to pass out again, but this time there was only warmth, and the sound of two voices calling his name. It wasn't such a bad last thing to carry with him into unconsciousness.


End file.
